Black Wizards (10 page)

“Sorcery!” cried the prince, finding his voice.

“What black magic is this?” growled Pontswain. The lord was not so much terrified as enraged. “You have brought this upon us!” he finished, shaking his fist at Tristan.

The prince shook his head dumbly and then watched as Rodger screamed, staring in horror at the death of his boat. The hull creaked as the center of the boat rose while the bow and stern dipped below the rolling waves. A black wall of water crushed the transom, covering Rodger as he screamed. As the water receded, Tristan saw the tiller banging loosely.

There was no sign of the sailor.

Daryth scrambled past him, and Tristan saw his companion lunging to grasp an oilskin bundle. The prince vaguely remembered that the package contained their weapons … the Sword of Cymrych Hugh!

The hull lurched apart, and the bundle of weaponry slipped into the black water and sank. Daryth dove after it, disappearing into the storm.

Abruptly, Tristan’s muscles broke free from the paralysis that gripped him, and he ducked to the side to avoid the falling mast. He scrambled into the stern of the boat, which remained just underneath the surface. He tried to see Daryth, and heard Canthus bark, somewhere close, but the Calishite and the dog were invisible in the darkness.

Daryth suddenly popped to the surface in the wave trough, and Tristan could see that his hands were empty. Then the crest of the wave smashed against the wreck, and the remaining piece of the
Lucky Duckling
disintegrated. The young prince struggled for air, thrashing desperately against the press of the thundering sea.

All he could find was an infinity of black, choking water.

“Kralax Heeroz Zuthar.”

Short, dexterous fingers stroked the surface of a mirror. A soft luminescence seemed to flow from the glass. The wizard spoke quietly as if, by his tone, he wished to soothe a nervous cat.

But the words were the dire commands of magic.

The luminescence grew cloudy, and gradually the outline of a room appeared in the mirror. Cyndre walked slowly around the council chamber, his concentration focused entirely upon the tall mirror. One of the blood-red tapestries had been pulled back to reveal the glass. Its gold frame seemed to catch and amplify the light from within.

The wizard stared into the mirror and saw the Great Hall of Caer Corwell, as he had seen for many days in a row. The hall was vacant, save an old cook gathering dirty platters from the large tables.

“Zuthax Eli.”

The picture moved, as if the viewer had passed from the hall and begun to climb the stairs inside the castle. For several minutes the image meandered from room to room, passing freely through closed doors. Caer Corwell seemed quiet, almost abandoned.

Cyndre felt a flash of annoyance, but he blinked it away. Self control, he reminded himself, was all important.

He thought of the cleric Hobarth with smug satisfaction. Blindly faithful to his violent god, that fat buffoon would sacrifice his own life if his awful master demanded it. And how pitiful were his clerical powers, mused Cyndre, when compared to the awesome might of wizardry. Such reliance upon gods, Cyndre believed without question, was the way of fools and weaklings.

The image moved from the keep to the outer wall, and here he found a pair of guards standing listlessly at their posts. One, a young man, asked the other a question. The wizard smiled slightly as he heard the words. His smile broadened as he heard the other guard reply.

He now knew all that he required: The Prince of Corwell was on his way to Callidyrr.

With growing interest, Bhaal watched the drama unfold upon the Moonshaes. As his will focused upon the islands, he found the Heart of Kazgoroth, still clutched faithfully by its servant
.

It was time, decided Bhaal, that the heart be given to one who could make better use of it. That one drew closer to it with each passing hour, and this closeness brought the god’s desire to a fever pitch
.

Hobarth would take the heart, would use it for the tasks it was capable of, in the
hands of a powerful cleric. Hobarth would gain his tool, and Bhaal would recover the very soul of his lost minion. This thought was immensely pleasing to him
.

And so Bhaal set in motion the things that would send the heart from the one who carried it to the one who would wield it. All he needed to do was take a man, already driven mad by the close throbbing of the heart, and make him irrevocably insane
.

The throbbing grew louder and deeper
.

is Highness, High King Reginald Carrathal, sovereign of Callidyrr and monarch of all the lands of the Ffolk, had a most annoying problem. To wit, a large pimple gleamed insolently from his cheek, resisting the king’s most arduous attempts to remove it.

Pouting, His Majesty turned from the mirror, his long curls flouncing, and marched across the bedchamber. The plush carpeting sank underfoot, thwarting his attempts to stomp noisily.

He stepped around a huge canopied bed, stalking alongside a wall that was hung in a fortune of silk curtains. In annoyance, he realized that he now stood before an even larger mirror—the one that hung above his dressing table.

“Blast it all!” he cried, picking up a small vial of rare Calishite cologne. He hurtled the container at the mirror, smashing both, before turning to stalk across the room again.

“Is there a problem, Your Majesty?” The smooth voice came from the wizard.

“How dare you enter my chamber without knocking?” the king huffed, squinting angrily at Cyndre.

“I was about to knock when I heard a disturbance. Fearing for His Majesty’s safety, I hastened to your side.…”

The wizard’s voice, as always, soothed and comforted the king. He felt his annoyance vanish as Cyndre stepped forward. The mage’s dark robe was open, revealing a soft cotton gown embroidered with gold.
His hood lay back upon his shoulders, and his blond, curly hair framed a cherubic smile in a wide, almost childlike face. His hand reached forward to pat the royal shoulder.

“Well?” the king said. “What did you want to see me about?”

“I fear, Your Highness, that I bring grave news. It is with reluctance that—”

“Tell me, you fiend! Do not play games with bad news! The king nearly hopped up and down in his anxiety. He licked his lips nervously.

Cyndre sighed, his reluctance obvious. “It seems that the usurper is on his way to Caer Callidyrr.”

“What?” the High King squeaked. “But you promised me—”

“You need not fear him,” said Cyndre, looking straight into the king’s eyes. He did not add “yet,” though it was on his mind. Slowly, the monarch calmed down.

“Our first attempt to punish him for his treachery met with small success,” explained the wizard, pursing his lips. The gesture was a very strong one for Cyndre. “Nevertheless, I feel certain that we can still deal with him easily.”

“But what should I do? You must tell me!” The king’s words tumbled out, and the wizard could tell that he was losing what little control was left him.

“My … sources tell me that he is on his way even as we speak. He must land soon at one of the ports of Alaron. It would be a simple matter to arrest him as he steps ashore. All you need to do, sire, is declare him an outlaw.”

“Yes, of course. That I shall do! Why, he is an outlaw, isn’t he? He seeks to pretend a claim to my throne. I shall have him hanged!”

“Very good, Your Majesty. We can put a detachment in every port. He will be arrested the moment he steps ashore.”

King Carrathal turned, a frown of worry creasing his brow. “But how do I know that my orders will be carried out? This prince is a popular hero. Can I trust the loyalty of my own men to arrest him?”

“Is it not for just this reason that you retain the services of your brigades—troops that answer to you alone?”

The king paled slightly but appeared to consider the idea. “Yes … I could use the guard. I pay them too much as it is—perhaps it’s time I
gave them a task.” He slowly warmed to the idea. “But how do I know they’re trustworthy?”

“The Scarlet Guard will follow your orders,” said Cyndre reassuringly. “I brought them to you expressly so that you would have soldiers you could trust implicitly.”

“But the people won’t like it,” replied the king. “Those ogres, especially, make everyone so nervous.”

In truth, the ogres made the king himself very nervous, which was why he had not used them yet, though he had been paying them for more than two years. At least the Northmen had not bothered Callidyrr in the interim.

But now he considered using them against one of his own subjects, and this did not seem right. He knew that his people resented his employment of mercenary troops when the fighters of the Ffolk were perfectly capable warriors. Why had he let the wizard convince him to hire them?

“The people are your subjects!” argued Cyndre. His voice took on a hardened edge. “Will you let them rule the kingdom? I tell you, the guards are your best troops!”

“So you claimed,” said the king, “when you persuaded me to hire them.”

Cyndre lowered his head modestly. The monarch could not see the gloating light in his eyes.

“And the lords grow restless,” whined the king. “They all owe fealty to me, but they don’t act like it! I don’t trust any of them—they would turn against me at the drop of a hat. Like that bandit O’Roarke in Dernall Forest. That rebel could serve as an example for other traitorous scum!”

“You hold his sister in your dungeon. Why do you not use her as an example? Show what will happen to those who resist your will?”

King Carrathal turned away. He did not like to be reminded of the way he had usurped Lord Roarke’s land—nor was he completely comfortable with the idea of using the young woman as a lever to obtain his ends. “If only O’Roarke knew me,” he whined. “He and his outlaws would see that I have only the best interests of the kingdom at heart!”

“Do not underestimate the extent of the problem,” said Cyndre calmly. “But come, Your Highness, what of this prince? Will you do
as I suggest?”

“Very well,” sighed King Carrathal. “I shall declare the prince of Corwell an outlaw. The Scarlet Guard will meet him as he lands. They will arrest the usurper and bring him to me in chains.”